The interior of the car was a pressure cooker of silence and suffocating tension. The air conditioning hummed at a chill, yet Malcolm Ford felt as if he were sitting inside a furnace. Every time the vehicle hit a slight bump in the road, he could hear the rustle of Luca's jersey shorts against the premium leather. In his peripheral vision, the expanse of Luca's pale, flawless thighs was a blinding distraction that the Armstrong suppressants were failing to numb.
Malcolm's hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists on his lap. He wasn't just angry; he was experiencing a psychological rupture. The silver essence in his blood was thrashing against his restraint, sensing the proximity of the pretty boy sitting beside him.
"Vane," Malcolm's voice was a low, jagged vibration that seemed to make the windows rattle.
Luca, who had been staring out the window with a look of practiced innocence, flinched and turned his head. "Y-Yes, Mr. Ford?"
